


Trk'Nathal

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft (2016), Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Cultural Difference, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Political Alliances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28015854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: Anduin Lothar's alliance with Durotan goes as planned, and a coalition of humans and orcs defeat Blackhand and drive Gul'dan into obscurity. However, with many orcs still trapped on Draenor and others in desperate need of a home on Azeroth, relations between the two groups quickly fray. The new warchief, Grommash Hellscream, demands proof of the Kingdom of Stormwind's intentions through a sacred political marriage between the Hellscreams and Wrynns. When Llane's daughter Adariall falls ill and cannot keep up her side of the union, the king must make a difficult choice...
Relationships: Arthas Menethil/Varian Wrynn (Eventual), Calia Menethil/Derek Proudmoore, Draka/Durotan/Orgrim Doomhammer, Garrosh Hellscream/Varian Wrynn (Eventual), Jaina Proudmoore/Thrall (Eventual)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flarenwrath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flarenwrath/gifts).



> This fic will primarily be teenage Varian/Garrosh, with a side of Varian/Arthas and Thrall/Jaina. There will be a time jump after the first couple chapters to bring them up to 15-18 ♥

The sun cast its last rays through the tangle of branches and vines surrounding the orcish camp, shadows lengthening across the dirt at the center of the ring. A murmur rippled through the crowd, followed by the dull thud of steel striking bone. A heel skidded through the sand. A warrior off to the side beat his chest, and the High King of Stormwind strained on his toes and peered around the stone pillar to which he clung. 

As the shade deepened behind him, a chill slid up his back to his tousled brown hair. He pursed his lips and readied himself; he had to wrench his gaze away from his brother-in-law’s body, dwarfed by a clenched green fist, as it was tossed about like a leaf on the wind. 

Beside him, Durotan, Chieftain of the Frostwolf clan, cleared his throat. The rumble that built in his chest shook King Llane to his core. He longed to ask if it was a sound of approval or concern, but when he opened his mouth he realized Garona had left them to return to the ridge. 

All he could do for now was pay the other leader a glance and a slight incline of his head that the orc, thankfully, returned. They lapsed into another silence. From the gate at his side, a whisper swelled and rippled the air. 

Its spark caught the eye of the orc Garona called Gul’dan. He pulled back his hunched spine and grunted, hissing something to the imposing brown orc that stood a few paces behind him. In reply, the latter spat on the ground. The gravelly whispers that followed echoed on the parted lips of Durotan, who shifted and knocked the side of his boot against the stone platform.

Llane cast a last look in Lothar’s direction before grasping the pillar and pulling himself behind it, firmly out of view. 

From the back side of the portal, he watched the crowd ripple and swirl, distorted by the foul green magic that hummed in the air. The voice within that shimmering power grew louder, uttering words the human didn’t recognize but with a tenor that wasn’t wholly foreign. He didn’t have time to wonder about it; a grunt broke through the spell, and beyond, through the gap, Gul’dan lifted an open-palm hand and struck. His fingers collided with Lothar’s breast, the hollow thud of their impact rumbling down to the soles of Llane’s boots. 

His brother-in-law gasped. Like chalk thrown into the air by the beating of a schoolmaster’s eraser, a white residue flew from the warrior’s lips to linger in the space between his mouth and the foul orc’s tusks bearing down on him. The substance swayed, though Llane couldn’t be sure if it was the portal’s distortion or some life within it that sent it wavering, shimmering in the air. 

Lothar’s eyes bulged. He groaned. Gul’dan widened his maw and hissed. The blood drained from the king’s cheeks as his nails scraped and dug into the stone pillar wedged between his knees. 

White brightened to green, pouring into Gul’dan’s claw-like fingers. The chanting through the portal increased its vigor, and the earth itself quaked with what the king took to be the thud of orcish feet beating down the dirt. It was only when he lifted his eyes that he realized the trees were quivering.

From between two trunks, a white stallion broke through the shadows, trailing the blue-and-gold battle standard of Stormwind behind its jangling shadow. A dappled brown horse quickened to its side, and then a third, its armored rider arching their back and blowing into a white ram’s horn. 

In response, a low voice at the back of the orcish crowd let out a roar. Llane’s heart leapt at the sound, his eyes narrowing, scanning the fur-adorned Frostwolf onlookers for any sign of resistance, any turn towards his army or lifting of axe or spear to block their way. 

Instead, a bald, brown head rose to shine in the sun. An iron hammer swung, and when it landed with a metallic clang, the horde parted, making a path for the riders that ended at the center of the ring. Braids quivered and teeth gnashed, but when both horses and frostwolves poured into the gap, all movement in the crowd turned in Gul’dan’s direction.

The chanting continued, but the hunched green orc shook his bone-beaded staff and rushed, limping, into the dark forest behind his tent. The imposing orc at his side growled and spat. A leaner, and greener orc with a tall black ponytail broke rank and dashed in the two’s direction, and they were subsumed by the rumble of hoofbeats, the din of swords, and the growls of the orcish warriors set upon their prey. 

With sweat clinging to his brow and his breath high in his chest, the king grabbed for his sword and withdrew it in the sunlight. He pushed off from the stone platform and landed in the loamy forest mud, squishing, bending his knees and fighting to find purchase. 

When he emerged around the corner, a large hand wrapped around his pauldron and tugged him up, as easily as one might pluck a flower from a field. His eyes widened as he was brought face-to-face with Durotan’s searching stare.

The orc mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend, but from the lift on its final notes Llane knew it to be a question. He nodded, but had no time to consider what he had agreed to before the orc’s palm landed on his back and ushered him to the side, through a thick clump of bush and to an iron cage crammed to the brim with dirty hands and faces clamoring to escape through its bars.

The nearest face, the face of a boy no older than Varian, paled and contorted in a cry when they emerged. That cry died on his lips when Llane dusted off his armor and stepped to the side, free from Durotan’s grasp and into a patch of sun that had filtered through the canopy above. 

As the warm light fell upon his sweat-soaked curls, a gasp, then a murmur filled the prison from front to back. With every hurried step he took in their direction, the sounds took shape, cries becoming words, and words becoming bows and frantic jostling towards the floor.

He lifted his hand and stopped them. A tense smile formed on the corners of his lips. “Please, there’s no need.”

“Your Majesty.” An elderly woman bobbed her gray head. Her voice, thick with an Elwynn drawl, cracked and caught in her throat. “Are you- are you safe?”

Her wet eyes flew to Durotan’s imposing figure. Many in the crowd followed her gaze, but the king nodded, doing his best to summon a commanding tone as he pressed his shaking hand to the bars. 

“This orc fights by my side. His people have allied with us, to free you.”

“But your Majesty,” another voice croaked. “I saw him, I saw him that day the wretched creatures burned my mill to the—”

“Please.” Llane straightened, the weight of those words and what they meant for his people sinking like a stone in the pit of his chest. “Trust your king in this matter. We are here to free you. Durotan—” He whirled around, addressing him though he doubted he’d be understood. “Have you any idea what to do about these bars?” He gave the door a shake for emphasis; the heavy lock and chains binding it rattled, clangs reverberating off every bar of the solid, unyielding structure.

The orc’s eyes widened. His broad lips parted, and he trudged forward, shoving his thick fingers through the bars and tugging until the rippling muscles of his forearm pulled taut and his knuckles whitened. 

The cage creaked and groaned but not a bar or link of chain showed any signs of bending, let alone snapping. Grunting, Durotan drove his toes into the mud and pulled again. 

The cluster of humans inside whimpered and pressed against the opposite wall. Their king hastened to the back to try to soothe them, half-realized reassurances tumbling from his lips as Durotan yanked, and grunted, and snapped in frustration. 

His spit flew into the air. Sweat gathered on his furrowed brows, and Llane leaned against the quivering structure, his hope crumbling with every clank and swing of the blasted chain. 

Then, to their left, a bush parted. The slim orc with the tall black ponytail emerged. The king’s heart all but stopped when he realized what he was gripping in his hand: the thick, black braid of the orc who had stood by Gul’dan in the ring, and attached to it a blood streaked face, ending at a beard dripping with gore.

The prisoners reacted at once. Some buried the children’s faces in their skirts while others wretched, clinging to the bars separating them from Llane and letting out hopeless cries. He thought to wrench his gaze away from the new arrival, if nothing else to spare his stomach and set his attention on assuaging his people’s fears, but when the orc strode forward, a haughty grin on his lips and his yellow eyes smoldering, a glean between the fingers of his unburdened hand caught his eye. 

Durotan stepped to the side, regarding the other orc with an apprehensive look, but he threw back his shoulders and tossed the severed head into the dirt between them. He paced around it, bending at the waist, and shoving the key in the lock.

The latch sprung free. The people clustered by Llane’s side whimpered and forced their elbows between the bars. But then the iron door flew open, and, without even a word or a threatening snap, the green orc scooped up his bounty from the sand and strode back into the fray.

His black ponytail bobbed as he ducked to avoid a branch. Durotan watched his back with a slackened jaw.


	2. Blood Mixing

The strange wagon beneath them swayed, the even stranger beasts pulling it huffing and gasping as they climbed the hill leading up to the gates of the white-walled city. Pressing between his mother’s legs, with his small, green hands splayed over her knees, the young Go’el steadied himself, watching his father across from him. His head was bowed, a thick, white fur draped over his shoulders. 

He muttered something to Grommash Hellscream, the warchief, seated on his left, and Go’el knew better than to interrupt. Instead, he turned to face his mother and strained to point over the railing behind her. His tiny finger flexed, and he gasped out a short, excited “pretty” at a passing blue banner. 

His mother caught his hand, wrapping her palm around it and easing it closed. “Go’el.” She said nothing more, but from the lowness of her tone the young orc understood the warning. Pulling back his hand and clutching it in a ruddy fist at his side, he bobbed and swayed with the cart’s uneven movements, silently delighting in the occasional glimpse of white walls or blue flags he caught when the wheels dipped into holes in the road. 

After a time, they passed under the gate and over a bridge. The street beneath them evened, but the cart still creaked under their weight. Go’el finally gave in and crawled up into his mother’s lap, tucking his small chin against her shoulder and peering at the city through her thick, brown braids. 

A crowd of thin-faced people gathered in front of a merchant trading bread. None of them seemed to be eating, all frozen in place with their hands clutching baskets and their wide eyes trained on the passing cart. 

Go’el pressed his face between the bars and thought to raise his hand in greeting. Remembering his mother’s admonishment, he changed his mind, settling instead on a toothy smile that widened when it fell upon a pale-faced girl with sandy hair. 

She glanced up at him, and her mouth dropped open. With a high-pitched cry, her features contorted, and she shoved her hands into a woman’s long skirt and hid her face from view. Averting his eyes, the young orc sank. At one corner, three men in long white robes jostled strings of beads, muttering in a foreign tongue as they passed. 

Grom Hellscream grunted, splaying his knees and crossing his arms. Go’el’s father patted him on the shoulder, but it did little to chase the scowl from his face. Giving up the window, Go’el turned and settled into his mother’s lap, his lower lip trembling and his eyes roving from one male to the other, trying to make sense of the lines deepening between their brows. 

It was his mother who spoke first. Her chest rose and fell against the back of his head. “Garona said it would be all right.”

“She did.” His father nodded. “As did the thin one, the pale face. Their chieftain.”

“I don’t see why it took so long to receive us.” Grom threw back his head. His black ponytail swung between the bars, and the many strings of bones and beads around his neck rattled and clunked together. So many times around the fire or when the warchief visited their tent, Go’el had longed to reach up and grab those strings, giving them a yank or a jangle, just to see what would happen.

He had no such desire today. The thought of walking towards the angry orc tied his stomach in knots and made his knees quake atop his mother’s. Luckily, his father was ready to temper the warchief’s rage.

“They lost one of their leaders, the chieftain’s mate’s brother, my friend. We cannot begrudge them their rituals of mourning. We’d ask the same of them, if it were one of us who fell that day.”

“But a year, Durotan. A year we spent huddled like refugees around that blasted portal, knowing our people, my _son_ is on the other side while that world dies around them. Would you be so patient if it were him instead of Garrosh?”

Grom lifted a black-tipped finger in Go’el’s direction. Feeling the eyes of the adults upon him, he shook, and turned to bury his head in his mother’s breasts, bare beneath the fur stole she wore about her shoulders. Her hand closed over his hair, soothing the whimpers rising up his throat, clamoring to make an escape.

He managed to bite his tongue, but only when he heard his father’s words, rumbling low in the space between them. “Stop it. You’re upsetting him.”

“He deserves to be upset. He’s been dining on fat pigs and cows since the day we came to this world. What has my son been eating? I don’t know. Nagrand died, Durotan. I watched it wither around me. Every day I wake up not knowing if my son still lives. Forgive me for not pitying you and your family.”

“You will not,” his mother snapped, “speak that way in front of my son.”

“I will speak how I please. I am your warchief. And if these negotiations don’t go to plan, I will—”

The cart came to an abrupt stop, swaying forward, before settling. Go’el’s fingers flew to the sides of his mother’s thighs, struggling to find purchase on the seams of her leathers pants. When he teetered, she wrapped her arm tightly around his middle and held him in place.

Off to his left, out of view, the door squealed open. A pair of heavy boots hit the floor of the cart and strode forward, as a high voice greeted them in strangely accented Orcish. “Durotan, Warchief, just a moment, they’re getting stairs to help—”

“I don’t need stairs, Garona,” Grom growled, making the hairs on the back of Go’el’s neck stand on end. He lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder and stole a peek towards the open gate, to where a thin orc in a strange, long shirt and pair of human pants waited with her small hand resting on the lock. 

Jostling in his mother’s grip, he managed to catch her eye. She nodded at him, before Grom forced his way between them, sending her back a few paces across the white stone ground. When the warchief leapt off the cart, the human guards assembled around them took a few steps back, their armor glittering as they shuffled out of the shadow of a large building and into the morning sun. 

Unlike the warchief, Go’el’s father waited until two of those shiny guards dragged out some kind of wood structure and placed it where his feet could reach. After he had stepped down and joined the warchief, Go'el's mother gave him a nudge and rose, offering her his hand as the two of them walked together towards the open gate. 

A small, pale woman with little spots scattered like sand across her cheeks stood at the front of the row of guards. Her plain blue dress and white apron dragged on the stones beneath her every time she swayed or shifted her feet. When her green eyes landed on Go’el they widened, her cheeks brightening, and her legs quickening in his direction. A broad smile spread across her face, the first friendly look he had seen from a human since the chieftain visited their camp on Midsummer’s Eve. 

He offered a toothy grin of his own, but when the woman made a series of weird sounds his mother tightened her grip on his hand.

The skinny orc, a woman Go’el remembered was called Garona, took a step between them. She glanced from the human to Go’el, then up to his mother, her arms outstretched and her lips a nervous line. She said something to the woman Go’el couldn’t understand, before explaining, in her high, strangely accented orcish voice, “She doesn’t want to take him away. King Llane sent her to care for him. Humans don’t bring their children to meetings.”

“Orcs do,” his mother grunted, giving his hand a gentle tug. “Come, Go’el. You will be chieftain someday. It’s important for you to see this.” From the strength of her voice at the end of the sentence, Go’el quickly understood that those last words weren’t spoken for him, but for the benefit of Garona and the pale faced woman with sand scattered across her face. 

She lowered her gaze and bowed, and, when Go’el and his mother stepped into the sun, stole a final look in their direction before brightening to a flaming red, only slightly lighter than the hue of her hair. The guards, too, shifted and looked to the side, though Go’el couldn’t imagine why. 

He followed his mother to the spot where his father and the warchief had assembled, and waited while another cart pulled up and his father and mother’s other mate, Orgrim, emerged with a goofy smile. Chieftains Kilrogg and Kargath soon followed, and finally Chieftain Rend, who cast a long look in the warchief’s direction and gave him a wide berth as he passed. 

They walked together through a large doorway, nearly as tall as the empty portal that cast its dark shadow across Go’el’s home, and up a long, blue and gold rug to a massive round chamber. Like the city itself, the room shone like white bones in the sun. At the center stood a massive gold chair adorned with white furs, and on the stairs in front of it, the human king waited with a tall, dark skinned woman on his right, and two children with wild brown hair on his left. 

Go’el opened his mouth and smiled. No one seemed to notice him where he bounced on his heels beside his mother’s tensely locked legs. 

Grom Hellscream strode to the center of the room, with Garona hastening on his heels. “Chieftain Llane” was the only thing he said in greeting, before fixing his eyes past his head on the golden throne. “It’s been too long since we spoke. My people grow restless. Our families wait on the other side of the portal with no help from you or any of yours.”

Garona and the king exchanged musical sounds. She walked up the steps to stand at the human woman’s side, pivoting on the balls of her feet to address both groups. 

“The king apologizes for the delay,” she explained. “The guardian has gone missing, and Khadgar has worked many hours finding the spell that will open the portal. The king hasn’t forgotten his promise. He is working hard to bring your families into this world.”

“And if we’d followed Gul’dan, my son would be here already, alive,” Grom pointed out. Go’el’s father let out a rumble of disapproval, stepping forward and resting a warning hand against his green shoulder. 

“That’s enough,” he murmured, gentle but firm. 

Grom’s eyes narrowed, and he flashed him a frustrated look before tugging his arm away. Wanting to hurry to his father’s side, Go’el straightened and tried to take a step forward. His mother’s hand flew to the scruff of his neck to pull him back, but it was too late to hide his attempt.

The sudden movement, the rattle and clack of her necklaces against her bare chest and the soft cry that escaped his lips, drew everyone’s eye. The royal family’s mouths fell, almost in unison, and the girl child hid her face. A silent moment passed before Llane cleared his throat and said, in broken Orcish, “Hello, Go’el. How are you?”

“Good!” He answered back, his tongue struggling to form one of the only human words he knew.

“Good,” the king repeated, smoothly, before turning to Garona and asking something that made his own cheeks turn pink. 

Garona didn’t react to it, shrugging, and addressing Go’el and his mother with a tiny half nod. “The king wants to know if Draka is cold and would like to borrow something from the palace stores.” 

“I’m fine.” His mother released her hold on his neck to smooth out her fur stole. “This will keep me warm.” 

“All right.” Garona nodded, turning and whispering something to the king while Go’el and Orgrim exchanged bemused smiles. After a moment, their interpreter switched back to Orcish and added, noncommittally, “He also wants to know why Go’el didn’t go with the woman. I told him he’s coming to the meeting.”

“Thank you, Garona,” his father cut in. After a few more words, and a few seconds Go’el spent trying to catch the chieftain’s son’s eye, and a few more seconds spent in disappointment when he succeeded only in being glared at and ignored, their party departed with the king through another set of doors into a smaller room lined with pictures. 

The king’s mate followed and pulled closed the doors. Go’el caught one last glimpse of the unpleasant boy with messy hair standing with his arms crossed and his lips set in a pout, before he disappeared through the rapidly sealing crack. 

The king smiled and offered the orcs a place around a table that came up to Go’el’s eyes. The warchief was the first to speak, his booming voice shaking a terraced plate heaped with white powdered cookies rising above Go’el’s head. 

“And if your ‘guardian’ remains hidden,” he picked up where he had left off, addressing Garona directly. He splayed his large green hands across the corners of a paper, but Go’el stood too far away to see what was drawn on it. “There are others who can do the work. Or are the rest of these human sorcerers only good for baking bread?”

“Khadgar can do it.” Garona replied. At her words, the human chieftain stepped beside her, glancing from Grom’s protruding tusks to the paper beneath his fingers and back up into his snarl. He cleared his throat, adding a string of sounds Go’el couldn’t make out. Garona angled her shoulders in Llane’s direction and continued. “He is in the city of Dalaran as we speak, assembling a team of sorcerers to study the portal. The king suspects it will take about six months to get it working.”

“Six _months_?” Go’el tensed at the warchief’s growl. Shifting against his mother’s side, he focused on the tray of cookies before him, licking his lips and balling his hand into a grubby fist. Perhaps he could snatch one, while his mother trained her eyes on their leader, he thought, huffing and digging his nails into the table’s surface. 

Making up his mind, the young orc uncurled his fingers and closed them around the cookie nearest to the rim of the bottom plate. He popped it into his mouth, stretching his lips to accommodate its circumference. A chalky powder coated his lips. His small teeth ached when they sank into the saccharine cake. 

A cough escaped from his parted lips. White dust sprayed into the air like a cloud and onto the edge of the dark wood table like a dusting of frost on the dirt. Above him, his mother snapped her neck in his direction and gave her head a pointed shake. 

Her hand flew to a satchel tied around her waist, and she extracted a scrap of white cloth, pressing it to his lips and wiping it across his cheek in a firm, clean swipe that left him chafed. 

A small murmur of disapproval rose to the tip of his tongue, but it faded when she released her grip on his shoulder and reached, instead, for a gold pastry in the shape of a wolf’s front tooth. She wedged it between his fingers, and he bit into it, enjoying the way the outside crunched between his tusks. A few wisps of steam curled from the exposed bread. Licking his lips, he smiled, and clutched the roll tightly between his hands. 

Voices on the other side of the table drew his attention once more. “I understand these things take time, Durotan, but what does he expect us to do? His people spend the winter among their people. Our clans huddle at the base of Gul’dan’s gate and pray our children are still alive. We have no homes, no stability.”

Garona turned to the humans and uttered a few high sounds. The chieftain’s mate clutched the sides of her dress and stepped around her, moving to stand at the warchief’s left elbow. 

When she spoke and lifted her chin, the crown nestled in her dark curls caught the light from the lamp hanging in the center of the room, glimmering at its peak and sending colorful flecks across Grommash’s face. He blinked, squeezing closed his eyes and furrowing his brows. 

Garona rested her hand on the table and leaned in, straining to address the orcs around the human lady’s right shoulder. “The queen says she understands your suffering, and hopes you can build your homes here. This is your home now, she says.”

“The _swamp_?” Go’el’s head whipped to the side to meet the low rumble of Orgrim’s voice. The large orc crossed his arms, letting out a murmur that started low in his chest and rippled through the surrounding crowd. 

“This human does realize we don’t all live in the marshes, does she not?” Rend chimed in, joining the group for the first time since entering the room. “Our camp is fine for the likes of Deadeye and his ilk, but my people haven’t managed a decent kiln in over a year.”

“I can hardly sleep with the swamp bugs buzzing in my ear.” 

“And the _smell._ ” 

Go’el’s father cleared his throat, looking first to Orgim, then to his mother, and finally down at the edge of the wooden tabletop around which Go’el had wrapped his small fingers. With a low hum of approval, he added, carefully measuring each word. “It has also been hard on my people. The heat isn’t what we’re used to. Our wolves pant for water every day.”

“And our children will never learn our customs.” A hand landed on the top of Go’el’s arm, giving it a squeeze. Glancing up at his mother, he smiled and nestled his cheek against her leather-clad hip. 

On the other side of the table, Garona and the humans conferred in low voices. After a moment, their chieftain took a step forward and pointed at the paper beneath Grommash’s palms. 

He addressed them, halting after every sound. Garona tilted her chin to face Grom, and explained, “There are many unsettled lands in this world. King Llane wants to know what your homes were like so we can find somewhere to relocate you.”

“I need somewhere dry,” Rend declared, speaking directly to the king. Though neither could understand the other, their eyes met. King Llane inclined his head in the orc’s direction. “Somewhere where my people can build their furnaces and work with the ores in the earth.”

The humans exchanged quick words. Extending a slender finger towards the paper, the chieftain’s mate drew a circle around a patch of red. 

“The king would like to offer the Blackrock clan a place in the Burning Steppes, at the edges of Stormwind’s territory.” 

“And what of the Shattered Hand? We don’t want to live under this human’s thumb. We will make our own way in this world.”

“For you,” Garona declared, after another bout of musical whispers, “The king offers the wilds of Stranglethorn. You can push back the troll warbands, and in return the people of Stormwind will leave you in peace.”

Kargath hummed, satisfied with the arrangement. He pressed his sword-tipped arm to his shoulder and beat his chest with a hollow thud. His long black hair quivered with the force of his nod. 

“And what of the Frostwolf clan?” Go’el’s mother cut in, her voice higher in pitch than the male orcs clustered around them. Clutching the end of her leather belt in his hand, Go’el pressed his tiny chin against her exposed abdomen and flashed her a toothy grin.

Paying him a quick look, she nodded, but her lips remained set in a serious line, even when Go’el’s father stepped closer and draped an arm around her shoulder. Sandwiched between them, the small orc bounced on the balls of his feet, rocking from one thigh to the other as he listened to the humans’ strange chorus of sounds. 

After their words trickled to silence, the human king gave the paper another tap. Garona crossed her arms and followed the tip of his finger with her gaze. “King Llane offers the Frostwolf clan Redridge Mountains. There are humans living in the valley, but he trusts your people to exist beside them in peace. In return, you may hunt anywhere you wish.”

“Is that okay?” The human added in broken orcish. His small teeth clenched as he struggled on the final sound. 

“Yes,” Go’el’s father answered. It was one of the few human words Go'el had ever heard him use. 

“Good,” Llane replied. 

At the head of the table, with his hands still templed around the edges of the map, the warchief huffed and looked between them with a sharp glint in his fiery gold eyes. “And for the Warsong clan?” He asked after a weighty pause. “My clan needs grass for grazing our wolves, and wild grains for making our bread. We need warmth in the summer and cold in the winter, like Nagrand before the fel came and destroyed our towns. What will the chieftain give us to make up for this loss?”

At the boom of his voice, the king straightened, and Go’el followed suit, reaching for his father’s and mother’s hands and staring across the table with wide blue eyes. The humans muttered amongst themselves a bit longer this time, while Grom furrowed his brow and studied the map, occasionally twisting his neck to pay the whispering group a narrow-eyed glance. 

After what felt like an hour to Go’el, the human chieftain cleared his throat and swept back the curls from his forehead. “I am afraid your request is harder for them,” Garona translated from her place at his left elbow. “The humans have the same needs and have settled much of the grassland. However, the king offers to call a summit with the dwarves and see if there’s any place in the north your clan can have, but it will take a month or more—”

“What about here?” Grom smashed the tip of his finger against a yellow swathe on the map. It was as if he hadn’t heard a word the half-orc had said. “I remember this place. There was open grass, plenty of room for my people. West lands.”

“Westfall,” Orgrim corrected. As the word left his lips, every figure in the room came to life. Rend pressed his hands against the table and leaned forward. Kargath bristled, and across the map, the human queen went rigid. The tightness around the king’s lips and the swiftness with which he lifted his head sent quivers throughout the space. 

A weight sank to the pit of Go’el’s stomach, and even though he didn’t quite understand why it happened, a shudder crawled up his spine to the nape of his neck. The cold eyes of an old man scolded him from where they kept silent vigil in a painting on the wall. 

Dropping his gaze and squeezing on his father’s thick finger, he bounced. 

Lowering her voice, Garona answered, without waiting for the humans to prompt her, “That land is already taken.”

The warchief had his response ready to counter: “Plenty of space looked empty to me.” 

“The people who live there fear orcs. They don’t want anything to do with our kind.”

“So what does this ‘treaty—’” the warchief spat out the Common word— “Mean, then? How are we to trust allies who want nothing to do with us, who shove us to the edges of their lands like talbuks being herded from field to field. We would be better off making our own way. Just like I said at the council, we can’t wait for the humans to give us permission to live. We don’t belong to them. We lead ourselves, we—”

A high gasp of a sound left the queen’s lips. Everyone in the human party fell silent, staring at her with arched brows. For a time, it felt like all of them had forgotten to breathe, but finally, slowly, the lines around the king’s mouth and across his forehead relaxed, and he lowered his curly head. “Okay,” he said in Orcish. 

Garona blinked, and repeated the same word, in case any of the orcs hadn’t heard it the first time. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Grom matched her tone, withdrawing his hands from the map and rising to his full height. The ponytail atop his head cast an imposing shadow across the table, even if he couldn’t measure up to the other warlords in weight or in stature. “So he agrees.”

“At the queen’s request, yes. They agree. They will find a place for your clan to live in Westfall, but only if you—”

“And how do I know the humans who hate us won’t turn on us? What side will the king take if the people there try to wage war against us.”

“Your side,” Garona said, automatically. 

Grom let out a growl, low in the back of his throat, before turning to Go’el’s father and muttering, “And what do you make of this, Durotan? Do you put your trust in the half-orc’s words?”

“I think we must,” he replied. “We’ve come this far. We’re in their city and they haven’t attacked us. They’ve given us no reason to doubt their intentions.”

“Except the portal,” the warchief pointed out. 

Durotan’s upper arm tightened, but he didn’t have time to reply before Grom turned and addressed the cluster of humans once more. 

“I will put my trust in you and our alliance, but under one condition. Chieftain Llane, if you are true to your word, if you value my people’s strength and believe in our honor, you will enter into a union with my family. Today, our lines will become one. We will mix our blood in the sacred act of Trk’nathal, and when my son arrives in this world, he will take your daughter as his mate. We will be equals, you and I, or there is no deal. Do I make myself clear?”

The final sound that left his curled lips hung like smoke in the air. Go’el’s mother sucked in a breath. His father drew back his broad shoulders, and somewhere across the table, something small fluttered to the floor. The queen’s brown eyes flew open; her mate’s mouth went slack, while Garona shifted and stared, unfocused, at the curled corner of the map in front of her.

In the distance, a bell rang. Clenching his clammy hands behind his back, Go’el counted the tones, until he lost track and stared, unfocused, at the plate of powdered white cookies and beyond to a golden tool that caught the gleam of the lamp as it flickered above their heads.

* * *

After what felt like fifty passes in front of the back door to the war room, the growls on the other side of the wall died down and lapsed into the shuffle and thump of boots. An iron latch squealed, and the other, much larger door leading into the throne room swung open. Varian pressed his back against the wall and pursed his lips, counting the ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall to his right, bouncing on his toes in time with the half hour tone. 

Sweeping back the bushy hair from his forehead, he gritted his teeth and studied the sliver of light streaking the floor. Finally, it expanded as the door swung open. At the sight of his father, disheveled and pale, he opened his mouth. The king cut him off with a slow raise of his hand.

“Varian,” he murmured. “Not yet, please.”

“But father!” The boy exclaimed. The final sound stuck in the back of his throat. 

“Not yet, please, son. Follow me. We can speak more when we get to the kitchens.”

Though his jaw snapped closed and his nostrils flared, the young prince didn’t verbally protest. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue velvet tunic and followed at his father’s side, attempting to match his strides and the sharp exhales that escaped him. They passed through a stone doorway and down a winding stair used, primarily, by the Keep’s servants. 

It was only after they emerged into the deserted assembly room that Varian tried his voice. “Father.” He stopped, balling his hands at his sides. “You can’t possibly—”

“Varian, I know.” The king frowned. “Trust me, son. If there had been any other way, I wouldn’t have—”

“You didn’t even ask her! You didn’t even tell Adariall what you planned to do, you just—” The prince cut himself off, blinking back a stray tear or two that had gathered at the corners of his eyes, sucking down a breath and swallowing with what he hoped was enough force to quell his sob completely.

His lower lip trembled, and he sank his teeth into the sensitive flesh. Pulling at a stray strand of gold on his sleeve, he felt the fabric pucker then release with a snap as the thread broke free. He locked his knees and drove his heels into the tile floor, with all the stubbornness an eleven year old prince of Stormwind could muster. 

The king frowned and lowered his gaze to the ground between them. His shoulders rose as he drew in a breath. “I know,” he admitted. 

He looked older and more exhausted than Varian had seen him look since his uncle’s death. Stuck between wanting to run towards him and throw his arms around his waist and wanting to whirl around and storm out the chamber, bushy hair flying behind him, he ended up freezing and swaying in place. His eyes strayed to the strap of dirty cloth wound around the king's palm where the orcs had cut. A line of dried blood stole the moisture from the tip of his tongue. He licked his lips, wincing, and looking away. 

“I just can’t believe you would do this to her…They’re monsters, father.”

“They’re our allies now, like it or not. And it seems like we have fewer and fewer every day. We can’t risk losing them now, not with Gul’dan on the loose and the guardian missing. This is our only hope.”

“But if Gul’dan comes back? And they all side with him, and they have my sister with them, what happens then? What do you think they'll do to her?”

Varian’s voice jumped, and he swallowed, struggling to bring it to heel. The king’s expression softened, the lines under his eyes starting to even as he swept back a curl behind his ear. He took a step in Varian’s direction. Varian looked up, feeling suddenly small in his shadow, but when he knelt and rested a hand against his shoulder, the knot in the pit of the prince’s stomach loosened and settled. 

“You’re going to be a great king someday, Varian. You care about your family and your people. I’m proud to have raised such a boy.”

‘But—’ Varian anticipated. When it never came, he pressed his lips into a line and sniffed. His father gave his arm an encouraging pat. 

“The situation right now is tense, with half the kingdoms angry we allied ourselves with the orcs, and the other half set on staying out of it. It was a difficult choice, but for now we have to work with the alliances we’ve forged. Durotan hasn’t given us any reason to doubt him…”

“But she was supposed to marry Galen Trollbane…” Varian tried, in a last ditch attempt at protest. 

“And Thoras Trollbane refused to send troops when the orcs arrived, claiming it was a Stormwind problem,” his father countered, lines forming between his brows. When the words left his lips, he stopped himself, closing his mouth and pausing to draw in an audible breath.

When he spoke again, his words were smoother, and quieter. “I know this is difficult for all of us, but sometimes a king must make difficult choices. Your mother is speaking with her now. Together we can get through this. Your sister is a strong girl, and the Light will protect her. I know it will.”

Varian’s stomach sank. He closed his eyes, wanting to believe his father’s words, but in the darkness that overcame him it was hard to believe the Light could be watching over them, let alone taking an interest in their affairs. 

He hugged his arms to his chest and shivered. Pushing back his shoulders and sticking out his chin, he forced his eyes open and stared up into his father’s face. In the shadowy basement, even the crown perched on the top of his curly head looked dull. Even the blue gems mounted in its crest had lost their sheen.

He hated the way the orcs made him feel: small, helpless, at the mercy of creatures with no respect for his people and culture. The same orcs who had killed his uncle and burned town after town to the ground had his family locked in their grasp, and he didn’t know what to do except kick and scream and beg to be let free. 

He kept the fighting urge to himself, though, for now. He knew better than to humiliate his father and mother like that. Steeling his stance and jutting out his chin, driving his feet into the ground, he waited, ready, for the day the orcs would break their treaty and he could take up his sword against them. 

As he and his father left the kitchen and hurried up the stairs to the dining hall where the orcs had gathered, Varian’s mind burgeoned with images of war, clashing swords, burning tents, villagers clinging to his back as he saved them from their attackers. 

When they entered the hall, the orc boy, the little one with the round, green face, flashed him a smile. Something tugged at Varian's heart, but he quickly shoved it away, grimacing, hurrying around the table to where his sister sat with her hands clenched in her lap and tear stains still sticky on her cheeks.


	3. The Pox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor character death in this chapter, just a heads up!

A gust of wind swept through the Orcish camp in the shadow of the portal, blowing loose dirt long drained of its moisture. Clumps of dead grass hissed against the leather flap of Greatmother Geyah’s tent, where three children huddled around a pair of bone dice. 

The youngest, Dranosh, scooped up the battered ivory cubes and tossed them with abandon. One mark plus three. He cursed under his breath, a word Greatmother Geyah would have boxed his ears for had she heard him utter it. 

Crossing his arms, he leaned back and huffed. Jorin, the oldest of the group, cast him a tentative glance. “You hungry or something?”

“Of course he’s hungry.” Garrosh, the most removed of the bunch, lifted his sullen head from his knees. “We’re all hungry.”

“Greatmother Geyah said the party would be back by noon.”

“And now it’s four, and there’s still no sign of them. I knew they shouldn’t have gone into Shadowmoon Valley alone.”

“Shadowmoon Valley is a wasteland,” Dranosh chimed in through his pout. He scooted forward, taking the die and pressing them into Jorin’s palm. “I hear the talbuks are all but dead. Maybe they haven’t found any, and they’ve tried Talador, or Nagrand.”

“Nagrand’s much worse,” Garrosh admitted, pursing his lips around his tusks. “You should have seen it when we left with father. All the grass, dead. All the beasts, dried to bones. Even the ogres were starving. There’s nothing good left in Nagrand.”

A hush fell over the boys. The mention of Garrosh’s father sent Jorin’s eyes to the ground in front of him and Dranosh’s darting to the side. Swallowing, the Warsong orc unbent his knees and crossed them in front of him. They looked thin, wispy even, against the umber dirt. Too small for an orc of nearly eight, and more ashen than the healthy tawny hue they had been before the world started to die. 

Another gust of wind sent the tent flap yawning inward, a few bits of sand slipping in through the crack at its base. Jorin’s hand flew to the ties and he secured it before the next gale could come. Outside, a murmur of voices rippled through the camp, followed by the stamping of feet, then a high whisper in a tongue Garrosh couldn’t pin down.

With his hand still poised on the tent cord, Jorin wiggled his finger between the flaps to peek out. His eyes widened, and he gasped, “The portal!”

Garrosh pushed himself onto his knees and crawled over, shoving his head through the gap in the leather. The usual shadow that hung over the camp was gone, replaced by an ethereal blue light that cast every torn scrap of leather or discarded log in sharp relief. 

At the edge of town, the two stone pillars, the same ones Garrosh had stared at every day while doing his chores, had come to life. Between them, the air swayed. A voice hummed. The light brightened and swirled in a vortex at the portal’s center. 

An orc woman who had been collecting sticks in her arms spilled them on the ground. They rolled in front of Greatmother Geyah’s tent, knocking together and catching on a rock in the path a few feet from the corner of the tent. She bowed and squeezed closed her eyes, whispering a prayer to the ancestors. A male near the campfire pulled his axe from his belt and approached. 

This wasn’t the same power that had taken the warlords before, and there were so few healthy orcs left, Garrosh didn’t know if they could stand their ground should this turn into an assault. 

If only his father were here. If only the other Warsong warriors hadn’t vanished into that blasted portal, they could have found a way. They could have fought off whatever otherworldly foe approached. They could have stood their ground, if only—

On the stone dais at the base of the portal, a lone figure materialized, still glowing around the edges with whatever magic had brought him through. The portal dwarfed his silhouette, but when he walked down the steps, Garrosh realized he really was small—it wasn’t some optical illusion.

Slender, with narrow shoulders and a tuft of dark hair peeking out from under his hood, the new arrival surveyed their camp. In one hand, he grasped a long stick. The other he plunged into his robes, plucking out something and tucking it away behind his pale fingers. 

His brows furrowed, but his lips curled into a gentle smile. After stepping down from the stairs, he made his way through the grass, his robe swaying about his knees as he passed. 

Every orc in town had stepped out into the streets. Without warning, Dranosh weaseled his tiny hand under Jorin’s and tugged open the tie. The flap swung free, and all three orcs clamored to exit at once, tripping and piling and knocking against one another in their haste. 

The woman who lingered nearby shot them a warning look. They ignored it, jumping over her sticks and dashing towards the warrior by the fire.

When they drew near, the grayness of his hair and the lines at the corners of his lips came into focus. Still, Garrosh thought, he could take this traveler. What could one skinny being with a stick do against the might of an orc?

“ _Zug zug_ ,” the figure called out. “Please, may I speak to your chieftain?”

Garrosh froze; Jorin whipped around to stare up at the man. He spoke their language, but with a softness, stumbling over the ‘s’s, failing the guttural sounds. The boys might have mocked him under different circumstances, but today they gaped, jaws slack and small tusks jutting outward.

Jorin opened his mouth to reply, but the gate warped again, energy rippling between the columns and swirling into a vortex towards the center of the dais. The visitor’s brows rose, and he whirled on his heels, pointing his staff towards the portal and steeling his stance. 

Not sure what to do, the small orcs huddled together. The warrior who had been guarding the fire approached and dropped his axe between the boys and the visitor’s gray-blue cloak. Whatever was happening, it was clear from the way the strange man shuffled forward that he had no idea what to expect. Perhaps this was their chance, and they could axe him now, or overpower him, at the very least. 

If only the warrior would turn around, Garrosh could mouth the words. He didn’t want to risk speaking if the stranger knew their language.

Straining on to his toes, Garrosh reached for the orc’s bent elbow; his fingers brushed his skin, but before he could curl his fingers the rippling stopped and a line of tall figures emerged on the dais.

From their broad shoulders and the strength of their stance, one thing was clear: they were orcs. Garrosh squinted, and his gaze fell on a slimmer figure at the center of the row. A tall ponytail jutted up from the crown of the orc’s head, and thick black locks fell on either side of his face. 

He held a familiar axe across his thighs: a wooden shaft topped by a curved metal head, with spikes poking out from its spine…

Elbowing his way out of Dranosh’s hold, Garrosh took off, swerving around the adults and taking off towards the portal’s shadow. His heart leapt to his throat, and he took the stone stairs two at a time. Behind him, the stranger called, “You were supposed to wait, you know.”

Garrosh ignored him. Grommash’s lips spread into a wide grin, and he fell to his knee. “Garrosh.”

The boy threw his arms around the orc’s broad shoulders. His feet left the ground when his father scooped him up and wrapped him in a tight embrace. Somewhere off to the left, another pair of feet pattered up the steps. Jorin stood on the ledge and stared at an orc with a red eye and a topknot adorned with bones. 

By the time Grommash set down his son, the stranger had ascended to stand beside them. The orc clamped his hands around Garrosh’s shoulders and studied him, his red eyes taking in every detail: from his bony legs to his pallid skin. 

Grom grunted. Garrosh held his breath. 

“I should never have left you behind.”

The tightness in Garrosh’s stomach started to loosen, but clenched again when the stranger propped up his stick beside them. “Is this all of them?”

Garrosh followed the stranger’s gaze towards the cluster of orcs that had assembled in the center of town, from the elderly warrior to Greatmother Geyah and a group of Frostwolves that had been scrubbing their clothes with dirt. At the far edge of town, the hunting party approached, empty handed except for a small pail of water and a shriveled goren. Three of them had dropped their packs and were running towards the portal at breakneck speeds.

It wasn’t until the stranger fell silent and Grommash’s hands loosened on his shoulders that Garrosh realized the question had been directed at him. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. Biting his thin upper lip, he nodded, and took a step closer to his father. 

“Greetings, orcs of Draenor,” the stranger called over his head. “I am Khadgar of Azeroth, and I have come to take you home.”

After a round of greetings, loud pats on the back and hurried words exchanged in the shadow of the portal, the remaining orcs, barely a hundred in all, returned to their tents to pack up their belongings. Grom followed Garrosh to the makeshift orphanage, watching as he rolled up his furs and tucking them under his arm after the cords around them were tied. 

They reconvened on the steps of the portal, each orc separating to stand with their respective leader. Dranosh flashed Garrosh a toothy smile before dashing down the end of the line to an imposing Blackrock Garrosh didn’t recognize. Jorin stayed close, as the Bleeding Hollow queued between the Warsong stragglers and the large cluster of Frostwolves. 

The elderly orc from the fire clasped hands with Grommash, and, after exchanging a few hushed words, stepped back and bowed deeply. Grommash’s lips pursed around his tusks, but he said nothing more. Instead, he turned to the portal, straightened his shoulders, and led his clan into the bright blue light. 

As soon as Garrosh crossed the threshold it swept his legs out from under him. The world spun, and he fell forward, into an expanse that forced him to swim like water but without any hint of wetness against his skin. He wrenched his head to the side and saw an old woman floating beside him. In front of him, his father beat back his arms and propelled himself forward. 

Through the swirling light, into ethereal depths, and out into a murky fog that enveloped them like a shroud.

Garrosh’s knees hit stone, and then, with a hollow ‘thunk,’ the heels of his hands followed suit. He swallowed his wince and lifted his head. His father rose and watched him struggle to his feet. He felt small in the light of his judging red eyes. 

“This is our home now, Garrosh,” he muttered, as Garrosh wiped the blood from his scraped palms on the sides of his pants. “Soon we will travel to our new home, and I will train you myself, to see that you are prepared to take on your initiations as soon as you come of age.”

“Thank you, father,” he replied, cursing the way his voice quivered. “I knew you would come for us.”

“I would have come sooner if these humans hadn’t stalled our plans. But we have to learn to live with them, you most of all.”

The young orc looked up from cleaning his hands, his jaw slightly slack. Closing his fingers around the scrape, he tucked his arm behind his back, swallowing. “Oh, okay,” he tried, hoping it was the right thing to say. ‘Why is that?’ he left unspoken in the slight lift at the end of his statement. 

Grom stopped at the top of the stairs, gazing out over the approaching throng. A cluster of Bleeding Hollow waited outside more permanent looking shelters, rising to attention when Kilrogg emerged on their left with his hand clenched around Jorin’s shoulder. The others waited at the edge of the forest beyond, their backs slung with campwear and wolves standing at heel. 

The Frostwolf chieftain walked forward through the mud, quickening his pace to meet Greatmother Geyah, easing her down on the stairs and stripping the bundle of furs from her back. His heavy footfalls pounded in Garrosh’s ears, but he set his lips into a line and jutted out his chin, waiting for his father’s command. 

After reaching the bottom of the steps and squelching the mire beneath his boots, Garrosh’s father turned and trained his eyes upon the orcs materializing through the portal behind him. “Come. We can discuss more on the road,” he muttered, drawing back his shoulders. “The sooner we get out of this swamp, the better—”

A thin, pale man in even paler armor stepped out of the mists, trudging through the mud as he hastened past Garrosh and his father. The young orc turned, watching his sword quiver and clang against his leg guard beneath his hip. 

As Garrosh joined his father in the mud, the soldier passed into the shadow of the portal, to where the man who called himself Khadgar waited with his cloak drawn over his head. The two exchanged hurried whispers. Khadgar’s eyes moved to where Garrosh was standing and widened, ever so slightly. 

When he crossed the dais and approached the stairs, Garrosh couldn’t help but think he looked even paler than when he had entered their camp in Tanaan. Creases deepened between his bushy brows. 

“Warchief.” He glanced from father to son. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you two to come with us to the scouting camp on the hill.”

“And why is that?” Garrosh’s father shot back. “My son and I must make it to Stormwind by nightfall. Your king has planned a dinner in my son’s honor.”

“I’m afraid you’ll be going to Stormwind sooner than that, but dinner might have to be canceled.” It sounded like a joke, Garrosh thought, but neither his father or the strange _human_ laughed, not even when an orc child barely older than two jostled between them and tugged at the corner of Khadgar’s cloak. 

Not sure what to do, Garrosh clutched the boy’s shoulders and nudged him aside. Khadgar flashed him a pained smile, before pursing his lips and lowering his head. “That messenger tells me the princess has fallen ill with pox. I’m to port you and Durotan to the Keep, on the High King’s orders. We’re not to raise any alarm…”

“Pox?” Grommash spat the word. “And what do they want with us? We’ve told them we don’t have a cure. We know nothing of your human pox!”

“Nobody said you did. The king wants you there with your son. He is her betrothed, after all. I assume that’s why you were asked to the Keep in the first—”

“I don’t want my son near any pox. He can meet his mate when her sickness has passed.”

“My mate?” Garrosh squeaked, hating how small he sounded staring up at them. Crossing his arms and digging his feet into the mud, he straightened until his spine ached. His mate, his father had said. The princess. What were they—?

“I assure you, the healers in Stormwind are very capable. The area will be marked off, and your son kept at a distance. But it would be for the best…”

Khadgar broke eye contact with his father to shoot Garrosh a sympathetic look. He withdrew his hand from his gray-blue cloak and rested it gently against the top of Garrosh’s arm. The young orc looked down at it, not sure what to do except study his white fingers and the black smudges beneath his nails.

Who had his father promised him to, and why was he staring this human down like a wolf marking the entrance to his den? He didn’t have time to ask. With a grunt, the warchief turned and stepped around them, thudding off towards Durotan where he knelt by Geyah on the stairs. 

Garrosh started to follow, but the hand on his shoulder tightened. Khadgar gave him a gentle shake and forced a smile, his other hand darting into his pocket to withdraw a small glass orb. He held it out to him, and, after tapping lightly on its dome, sparked a blue light within that darted and whizzed like a firefly trapped in a jug. 

The ball hummed. Garrosh looked up, quirking a brow at the toy being thrust in his direction. 

“You can take it to Stormwind,” Khadgar explained after an awkward pause. “I’m sure the other kids will show you what to do.”

Frowning, Garrosh closed his fingers around it, watching as light seeped out through the cracks between them. He held it away from his body and glanced at his father, kneeling beside Durotan, their heads bowed and their voices low. Greatmother Geyah craned her neck to meet his stare, and nodded, a sympathetic smile twitching at the corners of her thin lips.

* * *

The stone floor chilled Jaina’s feet through her thin cloth slippers. As she dragged her toes back under the chair, she shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. At the other end of the hall, a pair of heels clicked across the floor, the rhythm of their gait drumming off every column from the infirmary to the hallway where she waited. 

Across from her, Varian paced. Arthas leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, while Calia pretended to skim a book in the seat beside her. On the floor, nestled between two columns, a gangly orc with dark skin tossed a whirling ball up in the air, and the smaller green orc in his lap let out a gasp that drew Varian’s eye. 

Varian scoffed, storming past them as he made another pass along the wall. A smirk twitched at the corners of Arthas’ lips when the princes’ eyes briefly locked, but Varian spun on his heels, his thick hair billowing behind him and his nose wrinkling. Calia folded her book around her fingers, looking up at him with soft, worried eyes. 

“Varian, it’s nearly eleven,” the older girl pointed out. “Would you like me to take you back to Keep?”

“No.” Varian shook his head, his hair flying about his face. “I need to stay until father is out at least. I need to know how Ada is doing. He said he’d be out by ten, I don’t understand why—”

The small orc between the columns let out a tiny yawn. He stuffed his fist in his mouth, but it was too late to muffle the sound. Whipping around to face them, Varian huffed, his eyes blazing in the dim candlelight. “Excuse me?” He snapped in Common. 

Neither orc replied, staring up at him with blank expressions. Jaina knew they couldn’t understand, but that didn’t stop the prince from baring his teeth. “Why the hell are they even in here? What do they want with my sister, anyways?”

“Varian,” Calia warned in a gentle voice. “This is a church.”

“I know where we are. I know what my sister is sick from, too. They brought it into this world, you know. It was their disease.”

“That’s why we should have rounded them up and killed them,” Arthas chimed in. Calia shot her little brother a warning look, which Jaina mimicked. Neither girl seemed to deter him. “That’s what my father wanted. He wanted us to just get rid of them.”

“Yes,” Calia replied. Withdrawing her fingers from her book, she set it down on the floor beside her with a gentle thump. The sound drew the younger orc’s gaze. 

“That is what father wanted,” she conceded after a pause. “But he’s agreed to work with King Llane to support the alliance he’s trying to build. I’m sure Varian’s father has his reasons.”

“Stupid reasons,” Varian grumbled, flinging himself against the nearest pillar. Arthas approached, patting the older boy’s shoulder until he sank down beside him on the floor. “I tried to tell father from the beginning this was bad. It’s one thing to fight with them a little, it’s another to...to…”

Jaina could hear the tears clawing at the older boy’s voice, but he didn’t let them show, shoving his fists into his eyes and letting out a shaky breath. Arthas whispered something she couldn’t hear, but whatever it was softened the lines around Varian’s mouth. 

Clutching his arms to his chest, he looked down at the white tile floor, leaning lightly against Arthas’ left side. 

Grateful for his change in expression, Jaina leaned forward in her chair, folding her hands in her lap on her blue linen skirt. She shot Calia a smile, then whispered, carefully, “Maybe we should do something fun. I know a few games we might play, if you want?”

“Not with them, though.” Arthas gestured towards the two orcs, who had crawled out from between the pillars to watch Varian’s outburst. 

She looked at them, biting her lower lip. “I—” She shook her head. They had been told to watch and include them, but how could they include them in a game if they couldn’t explain the rules? With a pang, she lowered her head. Her fingers plucked at the light fabric of her skirt. 

“Maybe a game is a bad idea.” She mumbled. 

“It sounds like a great idea to be,” Arthas shot back. 

A low sound escaped the older orc, and he clasped his hands around the younger orc’s shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. Every human head in the hallway turned towards them. Calia’s mouth went slack, and Arthas arched a brow. 

“We can’t understand you,” he answered, sweeping a strand of his shoulder length blond hair behind his ear. When he continued, it was with a pointed pause between every sound. “We. Can’t. Understand. Your. Language.”

“No,” the smaller of the two orcs replied in accented Common. “Go. Go, please.”

“Excuse me—?”

“What was that?” Varian rose, approaching the orcs with a scowl that twisted his features. He stopped before them, drawing back his shoulders and puffing out his chest, no sign of the tears that had welled in his eyes a moment before. “Listen here, orc. This is my father’s kingdom, and you are my father’s guests. If father says wait, you need to wait. Do you understand?”

Of course they didn’t understand, Jaina wanted to exclaim. But with Varian glowering before them, the youngest nodded and leaned back against his companion’s stomach. The older orc, the one with brown skin, wrapped a protective arm around the little one, growling and jutting out his jaw. A row of sharp teeth and tusks poked out from his curled lower lip. His yellow eyes darted to her, and she frowned, scooting back into her chair, forgetting her impulse to stand up for them. 

When the older orc didn’t get what he wanted from her, he turned to Varian, uttering another string of sounds. Even though the prince couldn’t have understood, his blue eyes narrowed as if he had, and he raised his voice, pointing to the sick room at the end of the hall. 

“Ada is in there and you’re complaining to me about having to wait. Is that it? My sister, the girl you’re supposed to marry. At least pretend to care about that.”

Jaina straightened in her seat, looking between Varian and the orc with widened eyes. So this was the one—the boy her father had mentioned in hushed tones on their way into Stormwind Harbor. He looked like any other orc, if not a bit thinner and angrier. Had Ada met him, she wondered with an awkward shift in her seat, or was today supposed to be the first time? Chewing on her bottom lip, she watched. Beside her, Calia drew in a breath.

The orc, Ada’s intended, scowled and gestured down at the smaller one clinging to his red tabard. Nobody followed his gesture, keeping their gazes, fixed, instead, on his glowering face. Frustrated and stubborn and wild, his yellow eyes flickered from human to human, and a loud, inhuman growl escaped his clenched teeth.

The sound echoed off every pillar. The green orc in front of him squirmed and hid his face. 

With the guttural note rumbling in Jaina’s ears, she didn’t notice her brother’s approach until his hand landed on her shoulder and his leather-clad feet bumped against the leg of her chair. With a sigh, she looked up. A pair of clear blue eyes and furrowed brows greeted her.

“Is everything all right?” Derek asked under his breath. An uncharacteristic frown marred his features. Looking past Jaina to Calia, he tilted his chin and stood back from the side of the chair. 

Calia smiled faintly, though it strained the corners of her lips. “It’s fine, Derek,” she whispered. “The orcs are just starting to misbehave.”

“Should I call father? He’s waiting with Trollbane in the sanctuary—”

“It’s all right, Derek, really. We’ve got things under cont—”

“Derek?” Arthas interrupted, striding between the orcs and Varian with his hands clenched at his side. “This beast is bullying Varian! Please get his mom from downstairs. He shouldn’t have to handle this—”

A small, green hand reached up and grasped the hem of Arthas’ linen shirt. Spinning on his heels, he tugged away, stumbling a few inches back until he landed in the gap between Calia’s chair and Jaina’s. Huffing, he smoothed out his shirt. He looked at Varian, and exchanged disgusted sneers with him. “This is what they’ve been doing. They haven’t shown an ounce of respect.”

“—They don’t understand what you’re saying, Arthas,” Jaina cut in, hating the hitch in her breath. “How could they understand?”

“That doesn’t give them an excuse to be rude. What are they doing here, anyways? It’s because of them Ada ended up in this mess.”

“Hey, stop it, you two.” Derek held up his hand. Every voice in the hall fell silent, except for one. With a whine, the green orc extracted himself from the other’s grasp and shuffled towards Jaina’s brother with outstretched arms, muttering something soft, and desperate. 

Derek shrank back, staring down at the child with an unmistakable curl of his upper lip. Stuffing his arms behind him, crossing them and grasping them at the elbows, he froze. 

Tears sprung to the corners of the young orc’s eyes. A small wet spot had appeared on the front of his suede brown shorts. 

“Calia,” Derek asked, slowly. “Can you please get Khadgar?” He didn’t move from his place against the wall to Jaina’s left. 

“Yes,” the princess nodded and rose from her seat. She looked down at Jaina, and offered her a hand. “Lady Jaina, how about you join me, okay? It will be nice to stretch our legs, won’t it?”

“I want to come—” Arthas declared from between them.

“No, Arthas, please sit down. How about you and Varian go sit on the rug over there and you show him your knife. This will only take a few minutes.”

“But I—” 

“Arthas, Varian.” Derek stepped around the orcs, gesturing to the floor a few feet away. “How about you show me first, huh? We’ll get Khadgar to deal with these orcs in no time. There’s nothing for you two to worry about.”

Exchanging glances with Calia, Jaina frowned and took her hand. She could feel the orcs’ eyes upon them as they left the halo of candlelight by the seating alcove and stepped into the shadowy part of the hall. The two older children didn’t want Varian and Arthas to know what had happened, she realized, and suddenly felt trusted: mature. Straightening her back and trying her best to match Calia’s stride, she followed her past a few more columns, to a room two doors before the infirmary with its wood door left slightly ajar. 

Inside, two men argued in harsh tones. As they approached the threshold, Jaina began to make sense of what they were saying. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you think about this right now.”

“I’d rather never think about it again, but it sounds like it won’t just go away if she…”

The man’s voice cracked. Jaina pursed her lips, wincing and averting her eyes to the floor.

“The _Trk’Nathal_ is a binding pledge. They tell me it’s spiritual, and it can’t be broken.”

“Varian is my heir. They know that, right? They understand he’s my heir, and a male…”

“They do, and Grommash said, and I quote, ‘Have more children.’”

“Light…”

“Ah, excuse me?” Calia whispered into the gap between the door and the wall. Within, a chair squeaked, and soft footfalls approached. Jaina had never been more grateful for the princess than she was in that moment for putting a stop to that horrible conversation.

“Yes?” Khadgar appeared in the doorway, his brown hair rumbled and his forehead creased with worry. “Oh,” he exclaimed, putting on a smile. “Princess Calia, Lady Jaina. Is everything all right?”

“Um, we’re having some problems with that little orc.” Calia tilted her head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the room beyond. Khadgar shifted and blocked their view. 

“Go'el?” He asked, hesitantly. “The green one, you mean?”

“Yes, the green one. He’s, um.” She rose on her toes and leaned in, cupping her hand around her mouth and whispering so only the mage could hear. 

“Oh dear.” His expression contorted. Shaking his head, he stepped over the threshold and eased the door closed behind him. After he stepped into the hall, he glanced down at the girls and shoved his fingers back through his tousled hair. Face pale and lips tightly drawn, he turned towards the cluster of boys at the far end of the corridor, and continued in a chipper voice Jaina knew was put on. 

“Well, then, let’s get him back to his mother. She’s waiting with the queen and Garona in the priory. I think your mother is down there with Tandred, as well?”

“Yes.” Jaina nodded, stepping to Calia’s side and taking her hand. “He was fussing earlier when he wanted his milk.”

“Okay. Well, I think little Go'el will be happier down there, as well, don’t you? Come on, you two. Let’s go get hi—”

A cry cut through the air behind them. What started as a whine rose to a wail, reaching a crescendo that was joined by shudders and gasps that prickled the hairs at the nape of Jaina’s neck. She didn’t need to turn to know what had happened, and she didn’t want to.

Calia’s hand fell limp in her grasp, and beside her Khadgar swallowed audibly, biting his lower lip and staring over their heads to the brightly lit passage into the infirmary. 

Somebody cried into their hands. A metal tray rattled, and the nearest of the lights flickered as a woman with a tightly-wrapped bun and plain linen clothes passed in front of it. Her eyes were downcast, her face pallid. 

The door to their left creaked open, and the haggard, deeply lined face of King Wrynn emerged like an owl in the night. He looked past the girls to the woman at the infirmary entrance, and his expression crumbled.

His hand flew to the frame of the door as he swayed and stumbled and gasped for air. Khadgar wrapped his arms around the girls and pulled them into his chest before they could see the king sink to the floor in front of them.


End file.
